Sugar
by hopeless3
Summary: A silly, sweet fic for a sweet holiday. Cy gets Skids a special present for his birthday. I'm thankful for SkidsCy fanfic and all the wonderful people who write it.


Disclaimer: I never do these because it's obvious I don't own anything, but surprise surprise! I'm doing one because, after eating entirely too much pie, I feel generous. I suppose I should think of something witty, but it's late and I'm desperate to get this fic posted. So here goes: I don't own Skids or Cy or Harley or Mik or "Pour Some Sugar On Me," which, I have to admit, I do like, and which was recorded by Def Leppard. I do own the powdered sugar, but I'm sharing it for a Thanksgiving midnight snack. Have some quickly, while I'm still jolly.  
  
(AN: Okay, I just gotta point out that the lyrics in parenthesis are done by back-up singers, and, towards the end, Skids. Cy isn't singing that part. Thank you.)   
  
It was, Skids reflected, very shibby, as birthday parties went. Bright lights. Bathtub filled with booze. Pounding music that the neighbors were sure to complain about. And people. People everywhere, some of them people Skids had never seen before in his life, all dancing and laughing and having a good time. It looked like the entire city had been invited and the majority had turned up. In fact, the only person that seemed to be missing was the one responsible for it all.   
  
Skids took a final gulp from the can in his hand, placed it on a convenient coffee table, and straightened to scan the room once more. Where in the world had Cy disappeared to? He'd seen the guy not ten minutes before, talking to a girl who was standing next to the stereo. He *had* to be around here somewhere.  
  
Spotting Harley across the room, Skids began to shoulder his way through the crush of bodies separating them, keeping up a steady stream of "Sorry," and "Oops, 'scuse me." Maybe Harls would have some idea where to find Cyanide, Skids thought hopefully, and even if he didn't, at least he'd be someone to talk to. Someone that wouldn't try to barf on, dance drunkenly with, or just out-and-out seduce Skids, as everyone he'd met so far that night had.  
  
"Hiya," Harley chirped cheerfully over the music when Skids finally managed to push his way through the crowds. "Having fun?"   
  
"Yeah, and it looks like you are too," Skids shot back, amused. Harley was practically twined around Mikhael, a fistful of the Russian's sweater clutched in one hand and a glass of something that looked extremely alcoholic in the other.  
  
"Oh, he is," Mik chipped in, leering suggestively. Harley giggled and tossed down the rest of his drink, then leaned up to whisper something in his boyfriend's ear, something that made both grin wickedly.  
  
Not too long ago, witnessing such a scene would have turned Skids inside out with pain and longing. It would have literally made him sick to his stomach. He would have made some lame excuse about not feeling well and then he would have run home, skipping out on his own party. When he reached the safety of his dorm, he would have collapsed on his bed, too weary to sleep or cry, pining for the guy he loved and could never have. Skids smiled ruefully. Hell, he'd probably *still* be doing that, if it weren't for two factors.  
  
The first, obviously, was the announcement of Mikhael and Harley's commitment ceremony. God, he could still remember that day like it had happened last week, and months had passed since then. He'd been shocked, Skids recalled. Horrified. Hurt. The fact that Mikhael was real and quite likely permanent had hit him harder than ever. He'd been forced to confront reality, and he hadn't liked it. So he'd lashed out at Cy for some reason that he could no longer even remember.   
  
And that was where the second factor came into play. Cy. Cy had seen his pain and cared enough to find out why he was hurting. Cy had sympathized with him, saying that he'd been in a similar situation before. Cy had encouraged him, telling him that he could get past this thing, that it wasn't the end of the world. Cy had coached, guided, supported, motivated, and inspired. It was Cy who had refused to let Skids drink himself into a numb stupor day after day, Cy who held and soothed Skids while he cried himself into an exhausted sleep night after night, and, when he was finally ready to move on, it was Cy Skids had fallen in love with.  
  
In a way, it was ironic, because loving Cyanide was just as hopeless as loving Harley, Cy being irrefutably straight. Skids was beginning to wonder if he had a problem with wanting with men he couldn't have. He'd considered seeing if there was a self-help book (*Uttainable Men and the Fools Who Love Them*) or a twelve-step program ("Hi, my name is Gio, and I have a problem. I want to shag my best friend stupid.") or maybe even a psychologist he could go to. Except, well, the books were always a load of garbage and the programs would be far too embarrassing and the psychologist would inevitably blame everything on his father. That's what psychologists did. Though it could be fun to burst into his parent's home screaming, "It's all because of you, Dad! My masochistic tendencies in relationships and my crazy sexual urges are because of *you*!"  
  
Skids could help it; he laughed out loud at the mental image of his father's face, startling Mik and Harls out of their little tête-à-tête. They both looked up, mildly surprised to find another person present and more than mildly disturbed to find said person laughing loudly for no apparent reason.  
  
"Dude, maybe you've had too much to drink?" Harley suggested tentatively, eyeing Skids as if he were a crazy street person.  
  
"No, no, I'm fine," Skids assured his friend weakly, managing to pull himself together enough to stop laughing. "I just thought of something funny." At Harley's curious look, he quickly added, "But listen, the party really is great. Thanks for volunteering your apartment."  
  
"Ah, we don't mind. Do we?" Harley prompted, elbowing Mikhael sharply in the side.  
  
"Not at all," Mik agreed hastily, rubbing at his ribs. "In fact, I insisted we have it here. I'm more than--"  
  
He was interrupted by the sound of breaking glass from the direction of the kitchen. Without bothering to finish his thought, Mik hurried off to save the dishes, his face pale.   
  
"Poor guy," Skids commented sympathetically. "I know it's gotta be rough on him, watching his home being practically torn apart."  
  
"He's being well compensated."  
  
Skids grinned at the mischievous look on his friend's face. "I don't even want to know what you promised him. Just tell him I'm thankful for the sacrifice, okay?"  
  
"Yeah, I will. But you should really be thanking Cy. If it weren't for him, I don't think this party would have come together. I've never seen him work so hard on anything before in his life."  
  
Skids threw up his hands helplessly. "I've been meaning to talk to him all night, and every time I try, someone distracts me. Now I've officially been wished a happy birthday by every person here, and I can't find him."  
  
Harley considered. "Have you checked the kitchen?"  
  
"Yeah, but I guess one more time wouldn't hurt," Skids sighed.  
  
"Great. I need to go make sure Mik isn't killing anyone."  
  
As the two pushed their way through the milling masses in the living room, Skids noted absently that the song previously blaring through the speakers had ended; a new one was coming on. The beginning beat and lyrics were familiar, and he raised an eyebrow at Harley.  
  
"Eighties rock?"  
  
Harley shrugged. "Don't look at me. I am not responsible, I swear."  
  
Skids grinned. "It's okay. I actually like this one. Don't know how the rest of these good people will feel about it, though."   
  
"Hey, it's your birthday. And personally, I'm more concerned about this sudden mad rush to the kitchen. Are we trendsetters now or something?"  
  
Looking around, Skids realized that it was true. Many of the guests who had been dancing in the living room abruptly seemed very eager to get into the kitchen. "Well, either that or Mik really did kill someone."  
  
"Come on," Harley ordered. "Grab my arm. We're going to push our way through."  
  
"I dunno." Skids hesitated. "All of these people...."  
  
"Can go to hell," Harley finished cheerfully, linking their arms. "This is my house. Or, well, Mik's house, so it's basically the same thing."  
  
Having said that, the little blond charged forward, dragging Skids along behind him as he shoved people out of the way. A few turned to complain, but Harley snapped, "The birthday boy wants to get into the kitchen sometime tonight, so unless you want to be thrown out, move it!" And surprisingly, everyone did.  
  
Within a short period of time, they were standing in the doorway, glancing around for the source of all the interest. Skids had just started scanning the packed area in front of the refrigerator when Harls caught his arm in a vise-like grip.  
  
"Ow, what--" Skids began, but halted when he noticed that Harley was staring, eyes wide and mouth agape, at the far side of the room. Slowly, he turned his eyes in the same direction. And gasped.  
  
"I think we found Cy," Harley said, sounding amused.  
  
"I'll say," Skids whispered back, stunned.  
  
"Come on, we've got to get closer." Harley came to life, grabbed Skids' arm, and started dragging him off through the crowd. Again. But this time, Skids didn't bother to protest. He didn't think he could have said a word if he'd tried. All of his focus was on the boy dancing on Mik and Harls' kitchen table.   
  
Cy was shirtless, his dark eyes bright with alcohol and determination, his lean body twisting to the pulsating music drifting through the apartment. His spiked hair was tousled, his baggy black jeans held up by nothing but luck (or, in Skids' mind, some powerful force that was evil beyond comprehension), his skin glowing golden in the fluorescent lighting. In short, he was all Skids' wet dreams wrapped into one unbelievably gorgeous package. And then some.  
  
Skids barely even noticed that Harley'd gotten them all the way up to the edge of the table. He was too distracted by the way Cy was moving, and, when the first verse of the song started, the way he was singing. Skids had never heard such a seductive voice come out of his friend before. But as Cyanide continued to strut along the table, singing in that rough, sexy voice, Skids decided he could definitely get used to it.  
  
"Love is like a bomb, baby, c'mon get it on,  
  
Livin' like a lover with a radar phone.  
  
Lookin' like a tramp, like a video vamp,  
  
Demolition woman, can I be your man?  
  
(Be your man)  
  
Hey!  
  
(Huh!)  
  
Hey!  
  
Razzle 'n' a dazzle 'n' a flash a little light,   
  
Television lover, baby, go all night.  
  
Sometime, anytime, sugar me sweet,  
  
Little miss ah innocent sugar me, yeah!  
  
Hey!  
  
C'mon   
  
Skids swallowed, his mouth dry, as Cy did something particularly suggestive with his hips.  
  
Take a bottle,  
  
Shake it up,  
  
Break the bubble,  
  
Break it up!  
  
(Pour some sugar on me!)  
  
Ooh, in the name of love!  
  
(Pour some sugar on me!)  
  
C'mon fire me up!  
  
(Pour your sugar on me!)  
  
Oh, I can't get enough!  
  
I'm hot, sticky sweet from my head to my feet, yeah.  
  
(Huh!) Hey!  
  
(Huh!) Hey!  
  
(Huh!) Hey!  
  
(Huh!)"  
  
The crowd that had gathered around the table doubtfully at first had grown appreciative by now, clapping and yelling. Cy took it in stride, though the attention did seem to sober him up a little. He glanced around at all the faces, looking somewhat surprised, then spotted Skids and grinned at him. Skids could only stare, mesmerized, as Cy launched into the next verse, never breaking eye contact.  
  
"Listen!  
  
Red light, yellow light, green-a-light go!  
  
Crazy little dude in a one man show.  
  
Mirror king, mannequin, rhythm of love,  
  
Sweet dream, saccharine, loosen up.  
  
(Loosen up)  
  
I loosen up."  
  
Skids blinked for the first time in quite a while. Was he going crazy, or had Cy just majorly changed the words of the song, substituting "dude" for "woman" and "king" for "queen?"  
  
"You gotta squeeze a little, squeeze a little, tease a little more,  
  
Easy operator come a-knockin' on my door.  
  
Sometime, anytime, sugar me sweet,  
  
Little Mr. ah Innocent sugar me, yeah.  
  
(Yeah!)  
  
Give a little more!"  
  
And yeah, he'd definitely said "Little Mr.Innocent" right then. Add in the fact that he was still staring, and Skids' heart was pounding as hard as the music. What Cy did next didn't help to slow it down any.  
  
"Take a bottle,  
  
Shake it up,  
  
Break the bubble,  
  
Break it up!"  
  
Grabbing a bottle of liquor out of one of the spectator's hands, Cy emptied the drink onto his chest, then tossed the glass to the tabletop, where it shattered. Someone in the crowd threw him a yellow box, which Cy proceeded to wrench open, shaking the contents onto his body as he belted out the chorus again. Skids licked his lips unconsciously. The white powder clinging to Cya's body looked like---like--  
  
Next to him, Harls was muttering apprehensively, "Right out of the pantry! Mik is gonna to pitch a fit!"  
  
Oh. Confectioner's sugar. Skids felt his knees start to buckle.  
  
The guitar solo began, and Cy purposefully crossed the table to where Skids was standing and offered him a hand. The brunette's eyes widened in horror, and he shook his head frantically.  
  
"Come on," Cy coaxed. "It'll be fun."  
  
Skids started to shake his head again, then hesitated, chewing at his bottom lip. He *did* really like this song, but.....still. Table dancing? The crowd, sensing his reluctance, was beginning to chant, and Cya grinned at him persuasively. "They want you up here, man."  
  
Skids wanted him up there too, preferably pressed right up against that sweet, sugary body. The thought made his breath hitch and caused his reasons for remaining on solid ground to all but disappear. *Not* a good thing.  
  
"Go on, dude," Harley urged. "It's your birthday. Have a little fun."  
  
"But....but I can't dance!" Skids squeaked, desperately using the only argument he could think of at the moment.  
  
"I'll teach you," Cy assured him, then added, softly, "Please."  
  
Later, Skids decided it was the chanting crowd. Those people had come for a good party, and he couldn't let them down. He virtually *had* to get on the table. Or perhaps it was the alcohol he'd consumed that brought out the exhibitionist in him. He'd done some interesting things when drunk before, this not the greatest of them. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the way Cy practically whispered that last word, the promise in his eyes and the real pleading Skids could glimpse in his face. Cyanide wanted him for something, and Skids got the feeling it was one hell of a lot more important than a table dance.  
  
For whatever reason, Skids found himself standing on the table next to Cy in front of dozens of grinning faces, all expecting him to be sexy and exciting. "What do I do first?" he muttered uncertainly, feeling awkward. "You said you'd teach me."  
  
"First of all, pull your shirt off." The words were practically growled.  
  
Skids gaped, his jaw dropping in shock. "But--"  
  
"No buts," Cy ordered firmly. "Take the shirt off. Or...." His eyes glinted wickedly. "Would you rather I do it?"  
  
Without bothering to answer, Skids scrambled out of his red T-shirt, and, on an impulse, threw it to the cheering crowd. A small fight broke out as two women struggled over the article of clothing, and Skids giggled, blushing.  
  
"See? You're a natural!" Cy smirked. "Now come here."  
  
He obeyed immediately, still feeling slightly ridiculous. However, that problem cleared right up as soon as Cyan spun him around to face their attentive audience, placed his hands flat on Skids' denim-clad hips, and pulled Skids' whole body flush against his. Chest and shoulder blades were touching. Stomach and back. Ass and, well.....Skids blushed harder.   
  
"Cya, what--?" he managed to gasp.  
  
"Just be my back-up," Cy murmured in his ear. "And I'll move for both of us."  
  
And he did. He began that sensual dance all over again, but this time, he guided Skids' body to move with him. Sugar rubbed from one frame to another, fingers trailed fire over arms and torso, panted, intelligible Spanish sounded in Skids' ear, and the birthday boy took a shuddering breath. Nope, he didn't feel ridiculous at all anymore. Just....just....God, so hot.  
  
The lyrics began again, and Skids didn't even think about how embarrassed he was going to be when he woke up in the morning, completely sober and without a sexy Latino's hands all over him. He just sang.   
  
"(You got the peaches, I got the cream!)  
  
Sweet to taste,  
  
(Saccharine,)  
  
'Cos I'm hot,  
  
(Hot!)  
  
So hot,  
  
Sticky sweet, from my head,  
  
(Head!)  
  
My head!  
  
(Head to my feet!)  
  
To my feet!  
  
Do you take sugar?  
  
One lump or two?  
  
Take a bottle,  
  
(Take a bottle,)  
  
Shake it up,  
  
(Shake it up,)  
  
Break the bubble,  
  
Break it up!  
  
(Break it up!)"  
  
The people gathered by the table were going crazy, whistling and cat-calling, and Skids found another box of sugar shoved into his hands. Looking down, he spotted Harls winking at him before his attention was drawn back to more immediate matters. Namely, that Cy had let go of him to grab the sugar (which he found extremely disappointing) and was tearing the box open frantically (which was more promising).   
  
"(Pour some sugar on me!)  
  
Ooh, in the name of love,  
  
(Pour some sugar on me!)  
  
C'mon fire me up,  
  
(Pour your sugar on me!)  
  
Oh, I can't get enough!"   
  
Triumphantly, Cy succeeded in ripping the sugar open, and he turned to Skids with a hopeful glint in his eye. Skids barely had time to nod his approval before the raw sucrose was being poured onto his chest, and they finished the song in a white cloud of cloying sweetness.  
  
"(Pour some sugar on me!)  
  
Oh, in the name of love,  
  
(Pour some sugar on me!)  
  
Get all, come get it,  
  
(Pour your sugar on me!)  
  
Ooh,  
  
(Pour some sugar on me!)  
  
Yeah!  
  
Sugar me!"  
  
As the last notes of the song died away, the crowd burst into loud applause, but Skids could barely hear it over the rushing sound in his ears. He was staring at Cy, both of them coated in a thick white film, both of them grinning and gasping for breath. Without thinking, he reached out, ran a finger from Cy's chest to the waistline of those baggy jeans, and sucked the honeyed treat into his mouth.  
  
Then froze as everyone screamed even louder and he realized what he'd done. He'd table danced in front of a crowd of people. He'd sung loud eighties rock. He'd had his body practically plastered against Cy's. And now he was eating sugar--sugar!--off his best friend's upper body, and dreaming about doing it to his lower half.  
  
Skids squeezed his eyes shut anxiously. This wasn't happening. It wasn't. Ooohhh, Cy was gonna be so pissed at him. Cy was gonna rave about being the "straight one". Cy was gonna never talk to him again, Cy was gonna hate him forever, Cy was gonna--kiss him?  
  
Skids' eyes snapped open. Yes, Cy was kissing him. Hard, with curious, roving hands that were touching him in places that made his head swim. For a bare moment, Skids' confused brain tried to make sense of it all, but then it, like the rest of him, melted, and he didn't really care *why* Cy was kissing him, so long as he was.  
  
So he kissed back, and Cy made a sound against his mouth that had him shivering all over, and he was just seriously considering never having to breathe again when a loud, angry voice cut through the muted roar of approval in Skids' liquefied mind.  
  
"Torres! What is going on here?"  
  
Skids and Cy jumped apart guiltily, and everyone in the room suddenly went silent and turned to the doorway.  
  
"Shit," Cy whispered, and Skids thought if he weren't so dumbstruck, the situation might be funny.  
  
Mik was standing there, arms crossed over his chest and scowl firmly in place as he surveyed his wrecked kitchen, ending with the table in the corner. "Are you *dancing* on my table, Torres?" he demanded aggressively, stepping further into the room. "Are you covered in *my* powdered sugar? What the hell are you doing? Why--"  
  
Harley cleared his throat, and, when Mik glanced at him, raised his eyebrows significantly. Mik faltered, pausing in the middle of his rant. He eyed his boyfriend pleadingly for a moment, but Harley only shook his head.  
  
Mik sighed, then continued in a resigned voice. "Why didn't you invite me?"  
  
The room broke into laughter, and Skids sighed in relief. He'd have hated Cy's death to have interfered with their....well, whatever it was they had. He wasn't sure yet.  
  
"Oh, you know how it is, Rasputin," Cy replied lazily, the tense set of his shoulders relaxing. "I was just getting a few things straight with Skids. You know, like the fact that I'm crazy about him and think he's the most beautiful thing on the earth. Just minor stuff like that."  
  
Well. That cleared things up a mite.  
  
If the room had been quiet when Mik walked in, it was tomb-like now. Every eye was focused on Skids, trying to gauge his reaction to Cy's announcement. The air was taut with anticipation.  
  
"This isn't really fair, you know," Skids complained to the kitchen at large, unable to keep the grin from spreading across his face. "He's using my greatest weakness on me to try and seduce me."  
  
Cy quirked an eyebrow. "Sugar?"  
  
"No. Yourself."  
  
It was, Skids reflected, as every person in the room began cheering and his lips met Cy's once more in a burst of heat that threatened to consume him, very shibby, as birthday parties went. 


End file.
